Salt And Blemishes
by Lilith Encodead
Summary: Merlin has been instructed to help his master escape the castle, where his father is holding him prisoner like a misbehaved child. This is not an easy task for a simple serving boy, on a night where the shadows and gloom are particularly hungry. Merthur


**[Summary] Merlin has been instructed to help his master escape the castle, where his father is holding him prisoner like a misbehaved child. This is not an easy task for a simple serving boy, on a night where the shadows and gloom are particularly hungry. **

**Urg. I'm rubbish at summaries. I guess you could say it's a fic about barriers, self restraint and the frailty of pride… maybe… nah, that sucks too… Please just read the thing ^^;''**

**(****Set in the episode **_**"Sins Of The Father."**_**S2 Ep8) . Merlin/Arthur [One-Shot]**

~Salt and Blemishes~ 

Late in the evening, when the shadows inside and outside the castle are equally dark, Merlin walked alone down the corridors towards his master's chambers. It was on cold, fearful nights like this that he understood why some of Camelot's citizens felt the need to hang protective totems in their windows. Some even lined the doorways of their homes with borders of crystally white salt to ward off evil spirits and demons. To lock out the invisible evils that would seek to corrupt their souls, and steal their children away into the night, filling the empty cots with vulgar toad-skinned goblins - or other such unfounded suspicions. Tonight, demons and goblins were the last things on Merlin's mind. That afternoon, Arthur had instructed him to find a way for them to escape the castle, defying the king's decree and outwitting the guards of Camelot in the process. How casually he had asked him - with a flick of his wrist - as if it were nothing at all; a small feat, an easy task. And although this was becoming a more-than-regular 0ccurrence, Merlin could not help but feel a little put upon.

He had a plan, of course. He always did. With each step he took, he felt the coarse rope wrapped tight around his torso rub against his skin, until the burning itching became almost unbearable. Why was it that _he_ had to engineer Arthur's escape? Arthur was supposed to be the strategist after all, and he was supposed to be the…

Well…

Merlin sighed to himself. He was supposed to be the skivvy, and that's what he was doing.

But when had the lines blurred? When had it become acceptable - expected, even - that Arthur could ask him to do anything, and he would do it? Not when he had become his manservant, oh no. He wouldn't have done absolutely _anything _back then, and Arthur wouldn't have asked him to. It had been destiny and occupation that had driven Merlin's labours back then; not… whatever drove him now. When had Arthur begun to unthinkingly rely on him? When had they begun to trust one another instinctively, and completely? He simply couldn't remember, and trying to recall the exact moment was like searching blindly through murky water.

As he approached the door, Merlin made his best effort not to look suspicious, and keep his movements ordinarily inconspicuous. Not that he had anything to fear from the guards posted at either side of the door. Camelot's guards were notoriously dense and unobservant; a one-eyed blind man could do a better job then they did. Merlin had lost count of the amount of times he had fooled them with a simple bit of magic - not even magic! Just tricks really - or slinked effortlessly past them in the dead stillness of night. They were almost like children, so easy to bemuse, with their witless gawping faces always looking so blank. It was so easy, it was almost fun.

Perhaps, too much fun.

Every time Merlin caught himself thinking such inhuman, superior thoughts, his stomach winced with self-disgust. Gaius had imbedded that in him early on, and he was thankful of it. It kept the darkness at bay, like a ring of salt around his mind.

As Merlin drew closer to the statuesque sentinels, he moved more slowly, as if the air surrounding them was thicker than the rest of the corridor. Their heavy gazes pressed on him from beneath their ill-fitting iron helmets, as he awkwardly slipped through the double doors, closing them with a soft thud and click. The knot loosened in his throat.

Arthur's chambers were unlike any other room in the castle at that hour. Though it was brightly lit and lavishly decorated in imperial reds and golds, an air of gloom still hung in the air. Sat at the end of a grand four-poster bed, with his lips slightly pouted, was Prince Arthur. Earlier that day he had been humiliated. When the sun was at its highest, he had been defeated in combat, by a girl - well, to all intent and purposes she was a woman. A mysterious, strange woman, who had unexpectedly challenged him the night before; much to the surprise of all those present in the court. Though she was beautiful - blonde and elegant, with the most curious of auras, that drew people in like the sight of their own reflection - she was somehow hostile. She did not wish well to anyone in Camelot. Merlin had felt it instantly, her dark intent towards Arthur.

Wallowing in self-pity, he still hadn't changed out of his chain-mail, which hung shamefully from his body, as if it wished to pull his spirits down further. Quite pathetic really - though Merlin would never tell him that's how he appeared in the face of failure. What's the use of kicking a man when he's down?

Though Arthur was an honourable, gallant and noble man, he was also proud (which was both a quality and a defect). His life had rested in a short, slim, orb-eyed woman's hands, and the whole of the city - peasants, noblemen, and his father - had witnessed it. His vulnerability had lain as bare as a newborn babe's skin, for all to see. The memory stung in his mind. The base of his throat still itched, like the faintest prickling of electricity, where she had held the tip of her blade, ready to strike. His life had been as good as taken. And - gallant as he was - Arthur had faced death without a trace of fear in his eyes. Honour was worth dying for,-

Apparently -

Merlin had always struggled to understand his master's unyielding pride. He could admire it, to a certain extent; but he did not believe it was worth dying for. Today, when he had seen him pinned down, so close to the brink of death, Merlin had felt everything, and nothing, all at once. It was as if he had been numbed and drained; with his heart visible in his eyes, clear, empty and fragile as a soap bubble - as if one touch would break it apart instantly. It had felt as if _he_ were the one so close to death, as if he and Arthur had felt the vertigo of standing on its brink together. Fear in its purest form. He wondered if Arthur knew, _really knew_, what he did to those close to him when he offered his life up so readily and recklessly. Merlin was certain he didn't.

Upon Merlin's entrance, Arthur looked up from his hands. His eyes were dulled, as if his defeat had detracted from their blue brilliance.

"I've got the supplies," announced Merlin brightly, unburdening himself of a light but bulging shoulder bag.

Arthur studied him for a moment, eyes scanning up and down, before his expression slipped into one of suspicion:

"Merlin, is it my imagination, or are you getting fat?" he asked, gesturing his hand at Merlin's conspicuously shaped stomach.

Merlin took a step back and examined himself, his brain quickly clicking to what Arthur meant. As Merlin worked his shirt up over the many layers of rope Arthur's face brightened - a more drastic change than a sunrise after dusk - as a charmed smile spread over his lips. Upon seeing his master's expression, Merlin grinned a broad beaming grin that exposed his teeth. He really did look quite ridiculous, grinning like an idiot with a barrel-like stomach of untidy rope.

Arthur sprung up from the bed. It seemed as if his previous mood had evaporated to nothing. Though, thankful and impressed as he was, Arthur still fought to contain his compliments. They played over in his head, spoken in his own voice, but remained unspoken to the ears that would so delight in hearing them. There was reasoning to his silence, he was sure of it.

Complimenting Merlin was always, so - oh, how to put it? - _difficult. _Like admitting a weakness. Almost a confession. The words would feel warm and fat in his mouth, as if to speak them would taint the atmosphere. So they remained unspoken, to protect his pride. Besides, Merlin would be insufferable if he had an ego.

He would never openly praise him, Arthur insisted to himself. He would not slip up **- again**.

As Arthur turned away, Merlin began to unravel the rope.

This proved rather tricky.

It was twisted, knotted and twirled in some places. And the end - _both_ ends - were evading him. Feeling less and less clever with every dragging second, Merlin's hands fumbled, searching about his torso, trying to free himself from his itching bonds. Seconds, minutes, many minutes passed. This was getting embarrassing. His arms were beginning to ache at the bone, and his breath was catching in his throat; as if to be heard breathing was to be heard struggling.

He so hoped his cheeks hadn't tinted pink.

Arthur turned and rolled his eyes: "And here's me thinking you'd shown some proper initiative." he commented dryly.

Merlin did not reply. It would do no good to lecture Arthur about how he had done nothing towards their escape - he hadn't even changed out of his chain-mail! - and how Merlin had done his best with the meagre supplies that were available to him. He had better things to do with his time than help a grown man sneak out of his bedroom, after all. Still, he kept his lips sealed, as if they had been stamped with wax. Today had been trying enough on his master as it was. Pride was a fragile thing.

The prince moved towards him, throwing him a look that read clearly as: _"Honestly Merlin, can't you do anything?" _But, as his gaze dropped, so did this expression from his face, like a paper mask. Not meeting Merlin's eyes, Arthur began to feel about the layers of rough rope, loosening them.

"No. I can do -" began Merlin in futile protest.

"Clearly you can't." Arthur interrupted him matter-of-factly.

Merlin refused to be still and accommodating, and moved to free himself before Arthur could. Oh, how this moment seemed to linger! Their hands moved about his torso - following each other, close, but never touching - in a fumbling attempt to untangle and untie the twists and knots. Merlin felt truly foolish - flustered, even. How had he allowed himself to be so worked up? How had he allowed himself to get in a situation like this **- again**?

"You don't have to - Arthur." Merlin said again, but silenced himself when he felt his master wordlessly reach round his back and begin to unfasten the rope's tightest constraints. His fingers moved sharply, pressing down hard on his servant's spine. He held himself like that for what seemed like an age. Merlin daren't move; as they both remained there, holding their breath until it felt like a heavy, heated solid in their lungs. Arthur was not dense. He could feel Merlin's heart beating strong in his chest, and his breath drifting down his neck, making his body tense up like a nervous clenched fist.

Arthur's forefinger and thumb pulled on the rope, until the last of the knots unravelled out to nothing.

The sound of slow exhaling filled the room, as the rope fell limp around Merlin's ankles - Arthur's hands still beneath his shirt. They felt cold - icy, almost. Merlin stood frozen, silent and un-breathing. The atmosphere was still, and smothering.

Arthur looked into Merlin's face, but his gaze would not rise to meet his. He wished he would look at him, as the lump in his throat began to harden, like a chunk of apple caught there. Had Merlin looked up into the eyes of his master, he would have seen his heart visible in them - clear as the day - bright with love and yearning. No confliction, no mist or mask; just love and wanting. -

No pride. -

However, he didn't look up. He refused to. Or, rather, he refused to let himself.

Arthur's heart gave a sad twang, causing a particular smile to crack at the corners of his mouth, as if he were laughing at himself. He paused, considering something. Caution crept through him. Would now be the time to act boldly?

Slowly, Arthur's hands moved lightly up Merlin's stomach, lifting his shirt. He didn't move, as nervous and - he had to admit - pleasurable sensations flowed through him, prickling in his veins. Arthur's fingers moved over his ribs, tracing them, lightly defined by soft shadows on his pale skin, smooth and white as unearthed roots. This frail image caused his heart to twang again. Why must he be so delicate looking? It ignited something in him; an urge to protect perhaps? No, it was something stronger than that. Something that made Arthur himself feel vulnerable.

Arthur stood still, as his and Merlin's eyes met on his hands, their breathing still hanging in the air, thick as clouds. His pupils diluted slightly, as his eyes fixed on something. Just beneath Merlin's chest was a blemish, fresh from where the rope's fibres had grazed him. The sticky broken skin was blotched with the brightest of strawberry reds, as if it had been burned. Arthur felt a stinging just looking at it.

"Does it hurt?" the prince asked, his voice so low it was almost an undertone. He pressed his cold thumb down on the mark, feeling the hot flesh, and watching the colour drain away, leaving a white fingerprint. Merlin shivered gasplessly at his touch.

"No." he replied, meeting his master's crystal eyes, and drinking in all the emotion that lay there. His muscles relaxed and his face softened, as his barriers weakened, steady as receding tides.

This was becoming a near-regular occurrence. Arthur seemed to forget himself when they were alone. Not just now, but so many times - they stuck in Merlin's memory like thick, setting honey. Of course, he remembered them fondly, but with a peppering of guilt, that made his heart groan like a hungered stomach. Arthur would always hurt himself, though he would try to hide it, badly, in quite a boyish manner. He'd expose himself more than he'd wanted to, or say something he would rather have kept unsaid.

They were always doubling back on themselves, sometimes in dazed disbelief. Constantly, wordlessly taking things back they ought not to have said or done. Merlin would look back and wonder if his memories were really his own, and not a dream that had confused itself into thinking it were something more. Were they really so weak?

Could they not restrain themselves? Were they so incapable of stopping their eyes from looking, or their thoughts from speaking aloud, as if love-struck? If not for the sake of their feelings, or Arthur's reputation, then the sake of Merlin's head. The king would surely have him killed, were he to find out that his son had been consorting with his manservant. It was unheard of, perverted. Surly the product of sorcery. It sometimes seemed quite ironic; for this statement could not be further, or closer to the truth. Yes, Merlin did quite shamelessly practice magic, and yes, he would forget his boundaries with his gifts - but he would never abuse them in that way. He would never bewitch the prince. He could never betray him like that. The guilt would quite simply swallow him whole - crunching his bones down like autumn twigs.

Therefore, time and time again, Merlin refused him - knowing how it would hurt the prince. But that was how things had to be, were they to share a destiny together. It was a harsh price, but he could pay it.

This is when Arthur would get boyish; when foul play would ensue. He would speak taboos - words so honest, so close to the heart, that he ought not speak them. He would make Merlin feel guilty. For someone so proud to bear his heart so openly is not a small feat, and so to be refused is not a small hurt. Arthur wasn't dense. He would see Merlin's eyes betray the words he spoke, and he would challenge him:

"_When was the last time you called me sire?" _he had asked him, his voice raw, on the brink of quaking _"Titles don't matter, that's what you've always said. Don't you trust me, Merlin?" _

Leaving Merlin flawed, as if kicked to the ground, with a sickening guilt churning his guts. What was he to say to such things? Had he made this mess himself? Was he really so cruel, as to have made his master fall in love with him? How could he…? He couldn't have. Surely, his heart was better guarded than that.

Looking at him now, with his battle-calloused hands laying flat on his exposed skin, Merlin could see that they were both equally to blame. But, for all his reasonable thought, his heart was still beating quickly, like the wings of a panicking caged bird in his chest. He moved to say something, but didn't. His mouth was empty.

Gently holding him at the waist, Arthur pulled him in closer, moving to kiss him. Cautiously, closing his eyes, and leaning inward - Merlin was momentarily torn in two. He was tempted. Feeling his love's warm breath drift over his lips, his self-restraint wavered, like a rippling reflection on the surface of a pool. But he couldn't. It would be cruel to give him false hope.

Feeling like a heartless clot-pole, Merlin bowed his head and cleared his throat, cutting the Prince's advances short. Arthur exhaled disappointedly; his heart in a fleeting cold-sweat. He felt like pressing the matter - touching Merlin's hand and softening him with light, persuasive words to change his mind - but he couldn't. Upon seeing the pleading look in his manservant's tired eyes, the prince simply turned away and coughed the awkwardness out of his throat.

The moment faded from the room, leaving it cold.

Sadly relieved, Merlin's shoulders slumped as be gathered up the rope and shook it loose, before retrieving a pair of padded leather gloves from the bag of supplies. They were Arthur's, and much too large for his slender hands, but they would stop his palms from being burnt. He pulled them on, stretching his fingers out like a fan, and feeling the bones' tiny cracks. His eyes were fixed on his hands, and not on Arthur; he made sure of that. He felt childish - girlish, even.

The window creaked open. Merlin's eyes quickly snatched a glance at Arthur leaning out of the window; his hands already gloved and holding the other end of the rope. A cool breeze flooded into the room, and brought relief to Arthur's burning face, as he checked the distance to the ground.

It wasn't too high at all. This would be easy.

Unconsciously, Merlin's gaze slid down past Arthur's chain-mail covered torso, briefly lingering below the tailbone, to land staring at his leaning legs, stretching-

Alright; now he really was being girlish. Quickly distracting himself - scolding himself internally - Merlin snapped gaze away, and pretended to test the strength of the rope.

Arthur looked back at him, truly struggling not to pout. His eyes scanned his servant once more. Why must he be so delicate looking?

"Are you sure you're strong enough to hold me?" he asked sceptically; his brow furrowing at the sight of Merlin's slender, baby-birch-like limbs.

"Yeah," he replied casually, looking up with sparkling eyes. "I'm stronger than I look."

_**~end~**_

**A/N**** Thank you so much for reading, I really appreciate it ^_^**

**This is my only One-Shot fic that really **_**feels **_**like a One-Shot. The others kind of feel like a small snapshot of a much bigger picture (it kind of annoys people actually ^^''')**

**I so hope you enjoyed it. If you have any comments, please don't withhold them ~ !**


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